Escalation
by visceralvamp
Summary: As Lucius's mind slowly slips away, and he begins to form a plot to overthrow Voldemort, Draco reels away from him in disgust. Because, despite the fact that Voldemort would no longer be in control, Lucius's plans are much less favorable to all wizards...


Draco Malfoy strode down the dim stone hallway that lead to the Slytherin common room, his dark cloak streaming impressively along behind him. Candles guttered as the breeze drew past them, casting spidery shadows that quivered against the wall. Jaw clenched firmly, silver eyes glittering maliciously, and eloquent eyebrows furrowed in irritation and frustration, even the portraits that lined the walls fled to other frames in fear of his possible, and likely, wrath. They had learned that the Malfoy wit and sting of the tongue had breed true and well through the young wizard. He kept his gaze locked forward, glaring at the pinpoint at the end of the hall; the statue that doubled as the Slytherin entrance to the dorms.   
  
It was a beautiful statue, carved from various types of stone with intricate detail. A woman, who struck a distinctive and self assured pose, one bare foot ahead of the other, the front with just the ball of the sole of her foot touching the cool base. She wore a loose dress, it's liquidity and flowing curves wonderfully visible through lines etched into the stone. One hand held a dangerously still sharp dagger, pointed across her body, the flat of the blade held lightly against her stomach. The other hand touched fingers lightly to her collarbone, near the neck of a sinuous serpent that coiled its long body about the woman's graceful throat. There was a blindfold twined around her head and through her hair, covering her eyes, rendering her anonymous. However, the most striking thing was the glorious pair of dragon wings that reared from her back, that were bound to her shoulder blades and lower back by bandages that wound around them and her stomach. The wings rustled restlessly.   
  
Reaching the end of the narrow hall, Draco pressed a hand heavily on the pewter snake that wound around the statue's neck, and hissed 'nadie' through his teeth. The base of the statue slid smoothly to the side, barring a slight catch, reminiscent of a jagged edge catching cloth. The snake's onyx eyes glittered, and, almost unnoticeably, a thin obsidian tongue flickered out of its mouth. Draco ignored it, and slipped through the arched doorway that the statue had hidden. The teen angrily tore his way through the common room, trodding disdainfully over a third year's parchment. He avoided the ink well.   
  
Pansy Parkinson looked up from the magazine she had spread across her lap at the disturbance. Flipping her short hair over her shoulder, she smiled. "Draco-"   
  
Not hesitating, he acknowledged her with a flicker of a glance out of the corner of his eye, the corner of his thin lips curling. He disappeared down another flight of stairs, and banged open a thick wooden door at the landing. Kicking it shut behind him, he stood it the center of his private room, procured for him by his father. He sneered, and moved forward quickly, flipping open his trunk while simultaneously yanking open the closet. He pulled out only robes that he himself had chosen, flicking over anything his father had demanded he have. Tossing the pile of cloth onto the bed, he moved over to the desk, a wonderful oaken monster, and slide his textbooks off the top, dropping them into the trunk.   
  
"I'm not staying in this bloody room anymore," he began muttering, moving quickly about the large area, tossing things a bit more forcefully than necessary at the bed. "Bleedin' madman...I'm not dealing with something he's organized. He's makin' things more dangerous than bloody Voldemort."   
He paused, standing next to the bed, a thick, worn hawking glove held within two hands, and chuckled dryly to himself. Moving again, he continued his abrasive monologue. "In fact," he mused as he set a large pentagram mirror, wrapped in heavy satin, into the rapidly filling trunk, "he's gonna be more dangerous than Voldemort, no matter. Death tends to put a damper on competition."   
  
Dumping his robes on top of everything else in the trunk, he moved to the bedside table, and reached under the table leg, slipping his fingers against a dent. It clicked, and he dipped his fingers into the small hollow, pulling out a long, tapered knife. Pressing his fingers to the blade, and it glowed a dark violet for a quick moment. Then he moved forward, using the tip of the dagger to flick open the lock of a drawer in the desk. He set the ornate weapon on the bed. "I suppose the insanity factor gives him a small step up, to begin with. Can't be afraid when you're insane, right?"   
  
Draco reached into the drawer, and hesitantly pulled out an intricate, chain mail pouch. He let the cool metal slide smoothly between his fingers, before snapping it open, drawing a long necklace from its residence. The silver of the pendant glinted brightly, a slender dragon twisted into the shape of an ankh, its neck the top loop, wings spread straight out, and tail dangling straight down from its short body. The wizard draped the supple chain across his long fingers, and rubbed the smooth neck of the dragon that rested in his palm with his thumb. The dragon blinked an emerald eye at him, and arched its neck appreciatively. Draco smiled, then flipped it over, and stared hard at the words engraved on the back. 'Bad faith.'   
  
"I believe that's more of an adjective phrase attuned to you, father," he murmured, and slid the chain over his head.   
  
  
  
  
  
Harry Potter lay sprawled across his bed, the thick down quilt rumpled beneath his back. He had one hand tucked behind his head, at the nape of his neck, fingers threaded through his knotted hair. His eyes were closed, legs crossed at the ankle. He had Quidditch on the mind, and he was tossing a light steel ball in the air, then snapping his arm up to snatch it out of the air, before flinging it ceiling-wards again, an emulation of catching the shimmering snitch.   
  
Despite his smooth routine, he was focused instead on reviewing plays that had been set out for the upcoming match against Ravenclaw, and ways they could be instantly adapted if there was a problem.   
  
"They have that new Seeker this year...she could really cause some trouble. And since it's a late match, it'll start to get dark..." he murmured under his breath. And despite his light thoughts, there was still that dark little corner in the back of his mind, that was always present, and, when he was least expecting it, would suffuse his whole mood with guilt, and no amount of reprimand towards himself, from himself, could make it go away. The comfort of other's, their kind words, the 'it wasn't your fault's only made it worse. But he tried not to think of such things, while he had other, lighter things to ponder.   
  
His pensive mood was interrupted by Ron bursting into the dorm, a gust of air from the door sending a pile of parchment flurrying into the air. Harry snapped his head around to the door, and his concentration lost, he missed catching the ball he had been practicing with. It landed heavily on his shoulder.   
  
"Ow!" He raised a hand up to his injured shoulder as the metal ball rolled off the bed onto the thick rug covering the floor. Harry glared at it.   
  
"Oi, mate. Don't be all sullen towards the poor thing. You could hurt its feelings," Ron said seriously, dropping onto Harry's bed, and jostling the other boy's feet, trying to make more room for his own long legs.   
  
Harry threw a pillow at him with his good arm, and it hit the Weasley square in the face. The sable-haired wizard grinned smugly. "Now that was satisfying."   
  
Giving him a mock-glare, Ron launched himself at Harry, who promptly shoved Ron off the edge of the bed, via a foot to the stomach. Landing hard on his back, Ron stared dazedly at the ceiling. Harry peered over the edge of the bed, and began to chuckle. The chuckles escalated into a full blown laughing fit, and he fell back on his bed, arms crossed over his stomach, trying to breathe through gasping sniggers.   
  
Ron sat up, holding his head. He looked irritated and indignant for a split second, but a wide grin soon spread across his face at the realization that Harry was laughing. Harry was actually laughing. The red haired teen's grin grew wider, giddy that Harry was taking a break from all the self blame and guilt that had been permeating every one of the famous wizard's actions for the past several months. And so Ron sat there on the thick rug, grinning idiotically, waiting for Harry to calm down a bit.   
  
Finally, Harry rocked forward into a sitting position, one hand still across his quivering stomach, the other wiping tears away from his eyes. He gave Ron a wavering smile, trying desperately to avoid bursting into hysterics again.   
  
"Aw, that's great mate. The only way t'get you to laugh is to for a bloke t'hurt 'imself? This brings great news for my future well being."   
  
And that set Harry off again.   
  
  
  
  
Draco stood outside Potion Master Severus Snape's room, one hand in his pocket, the calloused pads of his fingers resting on the smooth lid of his shrunken trunk. In his other hand, he twirled his long wand between slim fingers, paused, and rapped one end smartly against the heavy oak door.   
  
He heard an annoyed mutter, and a moment later, the door swung inward and he was faced with Snape looking at him irritably. "Mr. Malfoy," he intoned, nodding his head once.   
  
"'Lo Severus," Draco said, slipping past the tall professor without a glance. Snape stood at the door a moment longer, a dark eyebrow raised at a silent stone wall. Closing the door, he turned to follow his favored student down the short hall to his main room. He stood at the yawning opening of the hall that flowed into the large room, which housed a large granite fire place, and a small arrangement of comfortable furniture, all furnished in a soft, supple, dark grey leather.   
  
Draco was sprawled across a sofa, his back flush against the cool smooth leather.. He rested his bare neck on one arm, cooling the nape of his neck pleasantly. His long limbs took up more space than was physically possible, and that made him seem the human embodiment of a cat. His eyes were closed, pale lashes gracing his cheeks. Snape moved from the entry to the room, and sat gracefully in an arm chair next to the fire, and fearing that if the boy began purring, he would laugh outright.   
  
Draco heard the soft rustle of cotton against leather, and sat up, opening his eyes, and meeting Snape's amused gaze with his own. Knowing that the professor usually would wait for him to initiate any conversation, and having been given no indication that this scenario would be any different, he began with a question.   
  
"Severus, would you mind terribly if I stayed here for a few days?"   
  
"Why in the world would you want to stay here? Draco, you have your own room, it's not as if-"   
  
"Exactly!" Draco cut him off quickly, leaning forward, silver hair falling across his right eye. His sharp gaze flickered over Snape, his eyes not remaining in any one place for any longer than a second.   
  
Snape lowered his head, and cocked it to the side, his eyebrows furrowed. "Excuse me if I don't follow Draco. But why would you want to give up such a fabulous room?"   
  
"Because it was father that got it for me," he snarled, his fist clenched tightly, nails digging crescent moons into his palm. His jaw was clenched tight, his mouth set in a firm line.   
  
Snape reeled back in his armchair, mildly shocked. Nothing really unsettled him too terribly. "Draco, surely you aren't rejecting things from Lucius because he's beaten you, or-"   
  
He was cut off again, as Draco fell back onto the sofa, laughing loudly.   
"Ah, no, Severus, no. He still, very much, favors me." Calming from the brief humorous fit, he sat up, sneering coldly. "Can't say I feel quite the same for the bugger." The blonde stretched his long legs, and seeing Snape waiting, he continued. "You see," he mused, a hand holding his chin, "the bloke's gone stark raving mad. But he's still sharp. And you know," he said, flicking his eyes once down Snape's lanky frame, as if he could see the scars that whipped across the thin body, "that he's close to Voldemort. So," he leaned back again, hands behind his head, enjoying the subtle pleasure of the leather as only an aristocrat could, "he's got this bloody horrible idea in his head that he's quit capable of carrying through."   
  
Opening one eye, he again looked at his Professor. "And despite the wonderfully high ranking I'd get from it, I'd still be under his thumb. And that'd be quite irritating.   
  
"So. I'll tell you about this fancy of his in a bit. But all I want is some confirmation that I can stay here 'til I find someplace else in the castle to shack up, Severus."   
  
Snape gazed back at him consideringly. "I suppose you may, Draco. I'll see about arrangements for getting you another room. Do you have your things?"   
  
"Oh, yes." Draco, slightly calmer, having come down from the high his lengthy explanation provided him with, sheepishly pulled his minuscule trunk from his pocket. He pointed his wand at it, muttering a few words under his breath. Quickly, it resumed it's large size. Draco propped his feet on the lid, stretching out, sliding his wand into his pocket.   
  
"I can already tell we're gonna be great roomies, Sevvie," he said teasingly, as Snape at been irritated glaring at his trunk. Snape then wondered what the hell he'd set himself up for.


End file.
